


Control

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Not Much Romance, Other, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), a traipse through history, manipulative angels, weird possible headcanon thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22480024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Crowley always seems to know far more about Hell's plans than Aziraphale does about Heaven's. It's safer to chalk that up to ineffability than to question it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 102





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a thought that got stuck in my brain, so I've no idea if it will be remotely interesting to read. I hope it is!

It’s not obvious, in Golgotha.

Crowley appears, full of questions, and Aziraphale is able to answer all of them, more or less, to a reasonable degree of accuracy.

“What did he say to make them all so angry?” Crowley asks, and he knows the answer to that one.

“Be kind to one another.”

“Oh, yeah, that’d do it.”

Crowley doesn’t press for more information - doesn’t even ask if the man on the cross really _is_ Her son, even though she must be wondering. Aziraphale certainly is. He’s been wondering since Gabriel popped in and asked him to head to Jerusalem for a bit, just to keep an eye on things, and then made a few pointed comments about being at a certain gate at a certain time. Aziraphale had arrived just in time to meet a poor woman fleeing the city with a bruise on her face and a baby on her back, in time to see that she was provided with a horse. He’d thought that was why he was here - he’d been pleased, actually, that Gabriel finally seemed to be taking an interest in the little details of humanity, rather than the broad strokes of history. And then, of course, a man had arrived at the gate with his entourage, and crowds were swarming, and there had only been a donkey left for him to ride in on. People had started whispering about miracles and healing and the divine, and Aziraphale had realised that _this_ was what Gabriel had meant after all. He’d followed the man though the city; he’d watched him speak, he’d watched him pray, and finally he’d come to watch him die. 

Still, even when the sky turns dark and the man’s cries cease, he doesn’t know. He should _know_ , shouldn’t he? As a soldier of God, he should know if that was Her son or not. That was probably why Gabriel hadn’t bothered to tell him. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

Crowley doesn’t ask, and so Aziraphale’s ignorance goes unnoticed.

* * *

In Rome, a few years later, Crowley fixes him with a gaze that is only slightly less shrewd than it might be if he wasn’t operating under the influence of several cups of wine.

“Anything I should be looking out for, angel? Upcoming events I might want to be on the other side of the world for?”

“I couldn’t say. We’re not exactly on the same side, Crowley.”

“Well, no, but you told me to clear out of Egypt that time. I just thought-”

“Nothing you need worry about,” Aziraphale tells him, and then thinks better of it. “Er. But keep your wits about you, anyway. Just in case there’s something I’m not aware of coming up.”

“Ha! Like Heaven isn’t giving you frequent updates on the status of the Great Plan.” Crowley smirks at him, though, and calls for more oysters. The kitchen at Petronius’ is surprised to find that they _haven’t_ run out, after all, and the evening passes without further enquiry.

* * *

In Wessex, Aziraphale doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. Not the faintest idea. He hasn’t even been given a location to patrol, or any clear instructions. In the absence of a specific task, he’s given _himself_ a mission - spreading peace, that seemed good and angelic - and when he hears of all the nonsense going on in Britain, he wanders over there in the hope of balancing things out a little. So really, it should be no surprise that he runs into Crowley, working in the other direction.

They end up in a tavern, after their pointed parting of ways, grumbling about damp and rust.

“So what are you really doing here? Camelot’s got a few months left in it.”

“A few- a few _months?_ ” That’s quite alarming. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, is that not what you’re here to stop? Well, I didn’t even have to do anything to plant the seeds of Arthur’s downfall. That horse has bolted, I’m afraid. So what’s your angle?”

“Oh, just- just seeing that the Knights of the Round Table stay out of trouble, mostly. Keeping that quest for the Holy Grail going.”

“Is it really the cup of Christ?”

Aziraphale can’t tell him that he still doesn’t know if Christ was _Christ,_ never mind whether his cup is lying around in the mud of Mercia somewhere. He thinks, on the balance of probabilities, it’s probably not.

“Of course not,” he tells the demon irritably. “Why would the cup of a humble carpenter from Galilee have found its way to this neck of the woods, anyway?”

“All right, all right. I thought it probably wasn’t, unless you’d brought it with you yourself.”

“Well, I didn’t.” And Aziraphale changes the subject, first to Hell’s plans and then, more successfully, to what passes for music in such an out-of-the-way little inn. When they part ways, though, he can’t help but reflect on the fact that Crowley seems to know much more about Hell’s future plans than he, Aziraphale, knows about Heaven’s.

He allows himself, just for a moment, to wonder why that is, and then chalks it up to ineffability. It’s safer to do that than to question it too deeply.

* * *

By the time he convinces Crowley to make _Hamlet_ a success, the demon has given up asking Aziraphale about Heaven’s plans and has, instead, become his main source of information about all sorts of occult dealings. Aziraphale isn’t sure when Crowley decided that these were no longer closely-guarded infernal secrets, but he’s glad of the little warnings he gets from the demon whenever something particularly major is about to happen. Crowley knows in advance when humans are about to go through things that will require more blessings than Aziraphale would usually be giving out. Crowley knows when the forces of Hell have plans for the region Aziraphale is currently occupying, and how long Aziraphale might want to stay out of the way for so they don’t have to actually thwart one another. Crowley even seems to know some of Heaven’s plans in advance, somehow. And Aziraphale… Aziraphale knows nothing.

If not for Crowley, Aziraphale would have been blindsided by the dancing plague of 1518. Without his warnings, he would be caught off-guard by _every_ plague, war, and supernatural phenomenon that comes his way. It’s Crowley who warns him not to spend too much time around the King of England in the mid-seventeenth century; who advises him to head for the Hague, if he wants to keep up his relationship with British royalty, or preferably even further away. It’s Crowley who lets Aziraphale know there’s a big war coming up nearby at the start of the eighteenth century… and the middle of the eighteenth century… and the end of the eighteenth century… In fact, without Crowley’s warnings, Aziraphale doesn’t think he’d be ready for anything that happens in the world, starting from the moment God stopped speaking directly to the humans. It’s partly so he can carry out his part of their Arrangement effectively, Aziraphale knows, but Crowley also gives him so much information that could _never_ be relevant to the Arrangement, only to Aziraphale’s comfort. He wonders if the demon thinks Aziraphale is holding back information from him.

And then, in 1862, Crowley asks him to meet him in St James’ Park. Aziraphale groans at the thought that he might be about to be uprooted again, or else have to deal with some sort of epidemic or an earthquake - and just when he’s got settled in his bookshop at last. But it turns out that it’s not a warning Crowley wants to deliver this time. It’s a request, folded innocently into a piece of paper and handed over without making eye contact.

Aziraphale reads it and his heart sinks. _Holy Water._ Crowley wants Holy Water, and Aziraphale doesn’t want to give it to him.

“It’ll destroy you completely,” he hears himself say, and knows he doesn’t want that. Because it hasn’t just been warnings. It hasn’t just been information. He’s got so much more from Crowley than just the occasional heads-up about major events. There have also been drinks, and meals, and walks in the park, and hours and hours of friendship. Aziraphale can’t bear to think of a world without Crowley in it, and not just because it would be a total mystery to him. He can’t bear the thought of losing Crowley, and so he pushes him away.

He doesn’t see Crowley again for almost eighty years.

* * *

It’s fortunate that the _Celestial Observer_ starts circulating during Crowley’s absence from Aziraphale’s life; it doesn’t tell him what’s about to happen, but at least it means he’s kept informed of major developments as they occur. He starts to hoard prophecy books, and with those and the human newspapers of the world to report on the minutiae, and the _Celestial_ to point out what’s significant to Heaven, Aziraphale manages to see himself through the latter half of the nineteenth century and an entire world war. By the time another kicks off, he’s feeling pretty good about his ability to put information together and act on it, which is one of the reasons he thinks he’s perfect for espionage in a good cause. The SOE seem to think so, too. So he is, once again, completely blindsided when his British Intelligence contact turns on him, revealing herself to have been in league with the Nazis all along.

It’s nothing on how surprised he is when Crowley - Crowley, who’s been avoiding him very diligently for nearly eighty years - walks into the church - a _church_ \- and saves him as if it’s nothing. And, really, could there be any more pointed a demonstration of how a deadly weapon can be used in self-defence than _dropping a bomb on him_ to save his life? It’s all very Crowley. Aziraphale’s certain the demon is still angling for Holy Water, but the subject doesn’t come up. Crowley gives him a lift back to the bookshop, and lets him out of the car with a quiet warning.

“Just four more years of this, angel, try not to get killed.”

Aziraphale doesn’t thank him. He never thanks him.

* * *

In 1967, Aziraphale is forced to accept that even Crowley doesn’t seem certain of what’s going to happen next. He’s determined to get himself some Holy Water, and if Aziraphale gives it to him, at least he can be sure he’s not going to get himself killed in the attempt. He pours it into a tartan flask, hands it over with shaking hands, tries to give Crowley some sort of point in the future to aim for, the way the demon always has for him.

“We could go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

Crowley, ever impatient, offers to drive him somewhere _now_ , anywhere he wants to go, and it tears at Aziraphale’s heart to leave him. To be unable to offer a concrete rendezvous, because he doesn’t know what’s coming. He hasn’t known what’s coming for a very long time.

* * *

Gabriel visits, which is alarming enough when he does it to mortals, but feels like a personal attack when he does it to Aziraphale. He never tells him what’s going on, just occasionally hints that he’s not ready for it, not equal to it, and that he never will be unless he bucks his ideas up. This time is no different; apparently Crowley’s up to something. Isn’t he always?

It’s Crowley himself, of course, who fills him in on the situation. After a rather unsettling telephone call - lacking in all of Crowley’s usual zest for mischief and dramatic flair - the demon takes a whole day out of his busy infernal schedule to convince the angel that they should work together to counter what Crowley himself just set in motion.

The Antichrist has come to Earth. They set themselves up as his nanny and his family’s gardener - Crowley looks indecently good in a skirt, but Aziraphale has known that for centuries - and try to steer him down the path of least destruction. Aziraphale has never felt so in the loop; Crowley gives him all the information he gets from Hell, and Aziraphale does his best to repay the favour with what he’s learned from his prophetic books, with what he remembers from his Heavenly training all those millennia ago. It doesn’t amount to much; Crowley threatens to throw him in a duck pond if he says _ineffable_ one more time, and Aziraphale very nearly believes he means it. He thinks _Crowley_ might almost believe he means it. He stops throwing the word around so often, just in case.

And then, in a flurry of activity and, frankly, chaos, it’s over. He doesn’t feel he contributes much to saving the world, although Crowley assures him he’s an essential part of the plan - _their_ plan, such as it is, not the Great or Ineffable Plans - but he certainly does his part in taking Crowley’s form in order to save _him_ , and finally they’re left alone. Heaven and Hell wash their hands of them, and Aziraphale and Crowley are left to themselves. To their own side.

For once, even Crowley doesn’t know what’s coming next. He can guess, of course, he can speculate - Heaven and Hell against humanity, what a dreadful thought - but, like Aziraphale, he doesn’t _know._ He certainly doesn’t seem to expect Aziraphale to kiss him, the following evening in the bookshop, nor to find himself sharing breakfast with the angel in his own flat, a few weeks later.

Aziraphale smiles at the demon and he blinks sleepily back, a tiny, warm smile curving his lips. He doesn’t want to pounce on Crowley before he’s even woken up, but that delighted, disbelieving little smile is more tempting than any wile could ever be, so Aziraphale miracles up a copy of the _Celestial Observer_ and fixes his gaze firmly on it. He’s reached the careers section by the time he feels Crowley might be awake enough to accept affection, and he’s about to look up and offer it when something catches his eye.

“Hm, that's unusual.”

The _Celestial_ job listings are usually just announcements. _Haniel has been transferred to the Records Department; Abriel is on secondment to Smitings; the Ninth Choir is on star duty._ Aziraphale doesn't think he's ever seen an actual job listing before. But there it is, in black and white. 

_Wanted: Control Angel (Earth)_

_What the job entails:_ _  
_ _Successful applicant will be stationed on Earth, with no advance knowledge of ethereal workings or strategy. Human reactions to events will be judged against the successful applicant’s to determine afterlife outcomes. This is an easy job; only a complete moron could mess it up._

 _What we’re looking for:_ _  
_ _Applicant must be prepared to resist temptation. 5+ centuries of Earth experience desirable, but not essential._

_Position vacant due to retirement of previous holder._

“Aziraphale? You with me?”

He looks up to find that Crowley is leaning over the table, waving at him. “Sorry?”

“You were miles away, angel. Something interesting?”

“No, just- well. Maybe. Would you say I’m retired, now, dear?”

“I’d say we both were. Why?”

“I think they’re advertising for my old job.” He slides the paper across so Crowley can read it, and the demon scans it quickly.

“I know you were stationed on Earth, but this isn’t your job. Is it?”

“It would certainly explain a lot. Nobody ever told me about anything before it happened, except you.”

“What?” Crowley frowns at him. “But you always seemed to know what you were doing, you just wouldn’t tell me- oh.” The penny seems to have dropped.

Aziraphale shrugs.

“I had no idea, my dear. I pieced things together from what you told me, and the newspapers, and the prophecies, but- well, it was only ever guesswork.”

“And that’s why you’d never give me a straight answer?”

“I’m afraid so.” He gestures at the paper. “Now it seems that might have been the idea. Me not knowing, I mean. I just don’t understand what good that did them.”

“ _Judged against successful applicant… to determine afterlife outcomes._ Oh. Oh! I think I get it,” Crowley tells him, and then his face falls. “You might not like it.”

“Go on, dear.”

“They were using you as a control group. Judging human actions against _yours_ , a literal angel, when you were surprised by the same events.”

“A benchmark for morality,” Aziraphale realises. “Oh, good lord.”

“And I put a thumb on the scales a bit, I suppose, by feeding you information… Well, that’s an impossible standard anyway.”

“But you weren’t Hell’s… I don’t know, Control Demon?”

“Nah, we don’t do the judging bit. If you don’t get into Heaven, you go to Hell, simple as that. Didn’t need a standard to judge people against. Oh, angel - you really had no idea?”

“I certainly didn’t apply for the job!” Aziraphale protests, but Crowley shakes his head quickly.

“No, not- I meant, about everything Heaven was about to do. Nobody warned you about the big stuff?”

“Do you know how I found out Armageddon was starting?” Crowley shakes his head, and Aziraphale presses on. “Gabriel came and found me over sushi, and told me there wouldn’t be clothes for much longer. I spent most of the night trying to work out how you were going to steal everybody’s trousers, or whatever mischief you were planning - it seemed the sort of thing you’d do-”

“Blessed right I would, it would have been hilarious-”

“-and then you called to arrange a meeting. I said I assumed it was about- and then I stopped, because I didn’t have the faintest idea. And you said-”

“Armageddon. Yes.”

They sit there for a few moments, processing that, and then Crowley sighs.

“Well, I wonder if anyone will apply. It’s not a particularly enticing job description.”

“No. They ought to sweeten the pot a bit. Well, you were always the expert when it came to temptations. What do you think?”

“No, I agree. They need to list some perks. Were there any?”

“Hm. Benefits include: sushi, music, an extremely attractive and wily adversary who will give you information in exchange for assistance-”

“I gave you information for your _company,_ angel, we were _friends_ -”

“-but oh, no, unfortunately the previous holder of this position is keeping the adversary, so you can’t have him.”

“Oh?” Crowley smiles at him, that same besotted smile he’s been saving for Aziraphale since the very Beginning.

“No, they can’t. I’m afraid that you, my dear, are mine.”

Crowley leans in to kiss him, and Aziraphale is fairly sure he knows all he needs to about the future.


End file.
